Shock to the System
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: All three Winchesters are forced to learn a lesson they won't soon forget.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Shock to the System 1/3

Authors: faye_dartmouth and sendintheclowns 

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not ours.

A/N: We tackled this project for pinkphoenix1985--both for our Pay it Forward on her behalf as well as her birthday :) Pink, we hope this is acceptable and helps make your day better!

A/N 2: Much thanks to** Bayre and gidgetgal9** for the betas. The fic is better for it :)

Summary: All three Winchesters are forced to learn a lesson that they won't soon forget.

CHAPTER ONE

John closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and silently counted to ten.

If he thought it would work, John would have tried physical intimidation on his son but his youngest was impervious to those kinds of tactics. Sam was fearless when it came to withstanding John's temper. It was too bad the kid couldn't apply himself to the hunt in the same way he did in opposing John at every turn.

Dean followed John's commands to the letter, unfailingly, without question. If Dean so much as took a half step out of line, John had only to quirk an eyebrow at him and it reeled his eldest back in. Sam received every directive as though it was an invitation to debate and the kid would argue until he was blue in the face if John didn't shut him down fast.

It was wearisome on the best of days and downright aggravating when it came to the hunt. They'd already spent days prepping for this, and Sam still managed to find something to nitpick. An hour out, and the kid was second guessing John. Again.

Not to mention the fact that they were already behind schedule thanks to Sam's slow delay home from school. The fact that they had a strict timetable was not really that important to Sam in the end. No, Sammy had gone to the library so he could do further research on the hunt. The hunt for which John had already studied, strategized, formulated, and delineated a plan.

Damn it. It was the eleventh hour and Sam wanted to throw in contingencies they didn't need. Hell, the entire thing was probably a ploy anyway to try to get a few more days in school before it was time to move on. It wasn't like the hunt mattered to Sam except for how it affected him. John knew that teenagers were inherently selfish, but Sam seemed to be ahead of the curve on that one.

When John opened his eyes, Sam was still standing in front of him, hand clutching papers, arm held straight in front of him. Extended toward John as if in supplication. But John knew if he accepted those papers, Sam would take it as victory and dig his heels in.

There was only one way to deal with his youngest son. "Go to your room. You're grounded for at least a week. No extracurricular activities, no trips to the library, and no reading. That includes homework."

Mouth gaping open, eyes flashing with irritation, Sam sputtered, "But…"

Crossing his arms, John interrupted. "Want to make that two weeks?"

Sam's eyes widened comically in response. He opened his mouth to argue and then abruptly snapped it shut. His son's thin shoulders dropped and his head hung low on his neck, messy hair obscuring his face.

"I'll call you when it's time to leave." John congratulated himself on maintaining a steady tone and volume.

With a slight huff, Sam turned away from John and toward his brother who had silently been watching the exchange from the kitchen table. The look of absolute disbelief morphed into one of pleading, large expressive eyes boring into Dean.

Dean ignored him, refusing to look at the kid.

Instead of a world class temper tantrum, Sam set the papers on the kitchen table, smoothing them out almost reverently, and left the kitchen quietly. His whole slumping posture screamed utter defeat.

Suppressing a smile at having won this round, John thought about asking Dean what was going on with his brother this time, but quite frankly he was sick of using his eldest as an interpreter. Sam was his son and he should be able to deal with him without a mediator.

It was all John's fault. He'd gone too easy on Sam; let his attitude slide for too long. Hell, he'd coddled the kid during his childhood, keeping him out of the know. He'd thought he'd been protecting the kid, given the suspicions John had, but now John couldn't be too sure if lying to Sam had been the best option. More than that, he'd let Dean carry the majority of the parenting duties and as a result he had a surly teenager who questioned his authority.

With a little tough love, John was certain he could bring Sam around. Turn him into a first rate hunter.

Just like his brother.

Dean looked a little uncertain. He smiled tentatively. "You want me to check on him?"

John looked toward the bedrooms and thought about his youngest. He thought about the world of things out to get them all, the world of things out to get Sam. There was still more to the story than Sam knew, even more than Dean knew, and the time for games was over.

He shook his head. "No," he said. "Let him sulk. It's time for Sam to grow up. Maybe we should just think of this as a way to jolt him on track. He needs a shock to his system in order to fall in line."

Dean nodded a little, but he looked skeptical, though he hid it well. "You think he will?" Dean finally asked.

John grimaced a little. He thought of his wife on the ceiling, of a four year old Dean carrying Sammy out of the house. He gave a small, bitter laugh. "Yeah," John said. "I'm sure of it."

-0-

Life was perfect. Dean had the Impala's wheels under him, his dad trusted him more and more on hunts and he had his geeky sidekick next to him.

Dean followed his dad's truck as he steered the Impala through town and out toward the abandoned power station. When the geeky sidekick let out a sigh and knocked his head softly against the passenger window, Dean reevaluated his thinking.

Life was almost perfect. If only Sam would cooperate.

Dean rarely took sides when his dad and Sam battled it out these days but if pushed – and he hoped no one would push him – he'd have to weigh in with his dad this time. His little brother was being unreasonable and Dean couldn't figure it out. When he'd asked Sam what his problem was, the kid had just crossed his arms and let his bangs fall across his eyes. Dean hated when he did that. It was hard enough keeping up with his little brother's teenage moods but when he couldn't see those large blue-green eyes, Dean was seriously lost.

Music pulsed through the Impala's interior – it was the only way Dean could combat what he perceived to be the silent treatment and he absolutely hated when it was quiet – Dean let his hand tap in time to the rhythm of John Bonham's drums. He refused to let Sam spoil his mood.

A slim hand snaked toward the volume and before Dean could protest, the music cut out. Apparently Sam was intent on spoiling his mood. Although the words that fell haltingly from Sam's lips weren't drenched in sarcasm and attitude. The kid truly sounded baffled. "Why are you letting Dad do this to you?"

Scratching the back of his neck with his right hand, Dean rolled his eyes. "Can you be a little more specific? I failed mind reading in high school and I didn't bring my Magic 8-Ball with me."

Silence greeted his question and Dean was on the verge of cranking the tunes back up when Sam cleared his throat. "You're the bait…it's not safe…what if…"

Now Dean had more to work with here. It sounded like Sam was concerned for Dean's safety.

The kid had the reputation for being selfish and contrary but at moments like this, Dean could have dragged Sam into a bear hug. The bear hug would of course have to be followed by a noogie because he refused to get all girly but damn if the kid didn't have a way of making Dean feel good about himself. That's why watching the two favorite people in his life butt heads was so painful.

Reaching across the bench seat, Dean gave Sam's shoulder a quick squeeze. He didn't like the tension he found in his brother's muscles but at this point the only thing he could do was reassure the pipsqueak that everything would be fine. "Dad wouldn't put me at risk. As long as we all do what we're supposed to do, no one will be in any danger."

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean noticed the way Sam's hands clenched and unclenched in his lap.

The truck pulled down a dirt side road and Dean switched his attention to following his dad. After a minute or two he rolled to a park next to the other vehicle.

His dad had already climbed out and flashed a rare toothy smile at Dean, white standing out starkly in the tanned and bearded face. Dean swiveled his head as Sam exited the Impala, his eyes firmly staring at his feet. The contrast in demeanors was startling and Dean turned his attention back toward his dad. If Sam was going to be a killjoy then there was nothing Dean could do to change his mind. Except ignore him.

They hiked the mile in to the power station and quickly scaled the fence. At one time it had been electrified but now the fence was dormant, a fact to which their dad could attest to, having verified it while on reconnaissance that morning.

"Dean, we're gonna pick out a spot between those two towers, under the spotlights I rigged up, and draw some summoning lines. We've got a little time so you can come downstairs and see what I did with the power grid. I put a little something in place so that we can freeze the phantasm when the time comes."

Dean heard the pride and excitement in his dad's voice and it made him happy that he was a part of this hunt. Sam, subdued and morose, had the air of someone being forced to attend a funeral.

His dad grabbed Sam by the upper arm and towed him toward the metal stairwell. Dean followed right behind and opened his mouth to tell his dad he was being too rough but instead snapped it shut. Sam had a voice and would definitely speak u p if there were a problem. When Sam's feet stumbled over a twisted metal step and the only thing standing between him and a nasty spill was his dad's steadying hand, Dean was no longer worried but relieved. There was no denying that Sam could benefit by letting their dad call the shots.

Sam was marched by a massive console on the wall that occasionally spat out blinks of red in a disorganized pattern. It was probably the outdated panel board for the power station but Dean didn't get a chance to look it over. Instead he followed as Sam was tugged over to a single steel handle jutting from the wall, wires and caps emerging from behind it like an octopus.

Smiling widely at Dean, his dad gestured to the single switch. "This is a little something I picked up in the Marines…I jury rigged a fused switch, bypassing the main panel, and tapping directly into the bus duct which is the main power feed into the building ." Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, his dad withdrew a walkie-talkie and pressed it into Sam's hand. "Sam, when I give you the signal, I want you to flip this fused switch. Now repeat back to me what you're supposed to do."

Sam held up the walkie-talkie. "When you give me the signal, I flip the switch fuse."

Dean winced at his brother's answer. He'd mixed up the difference between a switched fuse and a fused switch. His dad exhaled an impatience tinged sigh. "Dean, tell your brother where he screwed up."

Smiling with ease at his dad, Dean patiently explained, "This isn't a switched fuse, this is a fused switch. A switched fuse has the fuse that protects whatever the switch is controlling. The switched fuse is the fuse that goes into the fused switch."

The look of utter confusion on Sam's face would have been comical except for the heavy disapproval radiating off their dad. Dean loved showing off his knowledge. It was just too bad it came at his brother's expense. But the little geek had others areas that he outstripped Dean in so it all balanced out in the end.

At least that was what Dean told himself as their dad glowered at Sam. "You know what? Never mind. You just need to flip the switch when I give the order."

The 'dumb ass' was implied at the end of the last sentence and Sam could only nod and reply, "Yes, sir."

"Oh, and don't touch the wires," his father reminded him. "I had to expose them to rig the switch, but if you come into contact with them, you'll get quite the jolt."

Dean snorted a little. "I'd hate to see your hair on end," he joked.

Sam seemed to sigh a little, looking resigned. "Yes, sir," he forced out.

His dad, and idol, slung an arm around Dean's neck. "Come on, Dean. Let's go catch us a phantasm."

The tension that had been snaking through his back and up his neck instantly dissipated. His dad had a plan and he trusted Dean.

Dean threw a quick look over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Sam, head bowed, kicking at the uneven flooring beneath his feet.

Sam just needed to relax.

Picking his way up the drooping stairwell, Dean followed his father until they were under the spotlights rigged to the overhead wires. Dean threw his backpack on the ground and starting digging out the spray cans they would need for the summoning ritual. Sam had pointed out on a previous hunt that spray-paint was less likely to scatter than chalk and although their dad had never said anything, the cans had made their way into their hunting packs.

Sometimes their dad rode Sam a little too hard but that was why Dean was around to look after the kid. He always made sure the squirt was okay. He wasn't completely sold on him and Sam splitting up but if their dad said it would be okay, he trusted him.

His brother worried incessantly about everything – global thermonuclear war, making straight A's and whether or not his family was going to come back from each job.

If they could just make it through this hunt without an incident, maybe Dean could make Sam understand that his worries were unfounded.

-0-

Since last night when his dad had refused to listen to him, Sam had known that there was nothing he could do to stop this hunt.

He'd done some extra research after school and he hadn't really turned up anymore on the phantasm than his dad had shared. Phantasms fed off a different energy signature so salt was ineffective against them. They were photosensitive so they avoided the daylight and only came out when it was dark. A bright source of light concentrated on the entity could paralyze them temporarily and then a standard banishing ritual would take care of the problem.

The only thing his research had netted him was a grounding. What kind of parent prevented their kid from doing homework as discipline?

Putting aside his miserable near future, Sam's main problem with this job was that Dean was being staked out as the sacrificial goat. Just the thought of Dean being at the mercy of some supernatural entity was enough to turn Sam's stomach. If it wasn't such a big deal, why didn't their dad act as the decoy? And really, if they were summoning the phantasm, did Dean have to stand out in the open, alone?

His dad refused to answer his questions which was irritating. There was also something vaguely disturbing about the previous cases of people who had gone missing at the power station but Sam couldn't quite put his finger on it.

The only thing he could do now was listen to his dad's instructions and not screw up. The seasoned hunter, towering a good half foot or so above Sam's modest 5'6", curled his hand around Sam's upper arm and steered him toward the stairway off to the side which lead underground. The grip would leave a mark and if Sam thought his dad was doing it on purpose, he would've said something. One glimpse at his dad's face, features set in granite, told Sam his father wasn't manhandling him roughly to make a point; he was focused at the job at hand and at this point Sam was just incidental to the proceedings.

Incidental.

Kind of felt like the story of Sam's life. Always underfoot and in the way. And no one wanted his opinion, which to some extent he could understand because he was still just a kid at fifteen, but he wasn't stupid and it really hurt when his dad ignored him. He might not know the ins and outs of hunting but he did know research.

His feet stumbled over a warped metal step and his dad's hand tightened on his arm. Sam didn't miss the way his dad's mouth tightened in disapproval or the slight shake of his head. In his dad's eyes he was just an incompetent kid who couldn't even walk on his own.

Sam needed to push these thoughts out of his head and concentrate on what he was supposed to do on this job. Dean's life was depending on him.

His dad explained the whole switch thing and even Sam conceded silently that he couldn't screw it up. He might not be able to tell the difference between a switched fuse and fuse switch but he knew enough to flip it when his dad barked the order at him.

He schooled his features into a blank mask as his dad belittled him. This whole rigging up something mechanical was Dean's area of expertise, not Sam's. But it wouldn't do any good to point that out. His dad didn't care that Sam had other strengths; his dad only cared that Sam was a failure when it came to hunting.

His dad's arm hung loosely over Dean's shoulder, a show of camaraderie, as they disappeared gracefully up the dilapidated staircase, one by one.

It was an exclusive club and Sam definitely felt excluded but he'd felt different his whole life. This was nothing to get his panties in a twist over.

His eyes roamed the cavernous room, the dim light from his flashlight the only patch of brightness around now that the sun was sinking fast. The walkie-talkie burst to life in his hand and Sam twitched, finger hovering over the switch. "Look alive down there, Sam. No sleeping on the job."

Sam squeezed the talk button. "Yes, sir."

His nose crinkled in disgust at his dad's treatment of him but when he spotted something out of the corner of his eyes, Sam quickly forgot about his dad. He swung the flashlight in that direction but didn't see anything. Something zoomed by his other side and Sam flinched away.

It was as though something was toying with him.

When an orb of blue light blinked in front of the large grid on the wall, Sam's feet slowly drifted toward it. He didn't want to stray too far from the switch but he was beginning to think he wasn't the only thing in the underground room.

When the walkie-talkie in his hand crackled with static, Sam's heart thundered in his chest. He wanted to call his dad but that wasn't his dad's plan and since he didn't know what, if anything, was going on he didn't want to ruin what was happening topside.

"Showtime, Sam. Hit it on my mark…"

Sam scrambled for the switch on the wall, staggering back when his face slammed into a wall of resistance. The points of contact, his nose and hand, twitched and tingled even as blue light flared around the switch, dancing along the surface.

"…Now!"

Feinting to the left, Sam darted toward the switch only to be turned back rudely again. The sensation of deep cold, a blanketing frost, encompassed his right hand and Sam realized with dismay that the flashlight had been knocked out of his hand.

His brain finally thawed out and began to spin. It wasn't just one phantasm they were hunting, but at least two.

Calling on his memory, Sam began reciting a banishment ritual in Latin. Without light to freeze the entity in its tracks, Sam was a sitting duck and forced to endure the abuse of the outraged phantasm. When his back, and the back of his head, smacked into the concrete wall the only thing that kept Sam from blacking out was the knowledge that Dean was exposed upstairs and was counting on him.

Throwing his hand upward, Sam made a swipe at the switch. His hand jolted as it met the same tingly force field, cold enveloping his fingers, then hand, and eventually his wrist. The Latin spilled from his lips at a quicker pace.

The phantasm was screeching, the noise high pitched and the keening inhuman. Sam's head ached and he forced the ritual out even though sparks were flickering at the edge of his vision.

Making one more pass at where he thought the switch was on the wall, Sam's hand finally pushed past the tingling resistance. His hand connected with the metal switch at the same time the phantasm exploded into a billion frozen pieces, jagged bits embedding in Sam's exposed skin.

Freezing cold met with a burning sensation that traveled through Sam's fingertips, down his extended arm, and spread through his chest.

Legs and arms banged against his will, his head slamming back against the wall.

Something pungent filled his nostrils.

Burning hair.

Sam's consciousness finally flickered out as the whole room exploded into a frenzy of fluorescent yellow light.

-0-

All the pieces had been in place. John had the ritual. Dean was in the open. Even Sam was ready to flip the switch and play his part. The perfect hunting trio in action. One, two, three, and the phantasm would be history.

So when the thing had appeared, John hadn't thought to worry about it. Sure, there was a rush of adrenaline--seeing his son in danger was not something he particularly relished--but one flick of the switch and the thing would be frozen and with a few Latin verses this whole mess would be taken care of.

"Show time, Sam," he whispered into the walkie-talkie. "Hit it on my mark..."

He waited as it approached, stalking its victim carefully. A flash there, a blur of motion here.

Then, it made its move. Dean tensed in anticipation and John called out, "Now!"

And nothing happened.

No paralyzing light, just an angry hiss and Dean's panicked call.

John swore. Dean was scrambling now, in a half-assed retreat.

"Sam!" he called again, louder this time. "Hit the switch! Sam!"

Swallowing back another volley of cursing, John had to give it up. He'd deal with Sam's failure, but right now, he had to focus on Dean--who was losing his battle to evade the entity.

It was an unsettling site, one that roiled John's stomach more than he would ever admit. He didn't put his son in the position of bait lightly--and he'd trusted Sam to do his part. If not for the sake of following orders, then for his brother's safety.

But there was no time for that now. John quickly reviewed his option. He could distract the thing--try to get it to go after him instead--but Dean didn't have the banishing ritual. John did. If he was incapacitated, the entire hunt would be lost.

He could go flip the switch himself. It was a viable option, but it would waste precious time. Hearing Dean yelp and the blur of whiteness intensify, he knew it wasn't time he had.

Which left option number three: do the ritual, fast and furious, and hope he could get it out in time before Dean became victim number nine.

And then--a miracle.

The lights went on.

The flood of light was brighter than John had expected, and it did its job well. The phantasm was caught, paralyzed by the light.

Dean was still in the middle of it, chest heaving and eyes wide. Swallowing, his eldest met his eyes, taking a tentative step backwards.

The mist wavered but didn't move and soon Dean was clear. With a reassuring look, Dean nodded.

Heart pounding, John took solace in the fact that Dean was okay--which meant it was time to finish this. Once and for all.

With a whir and a series of pops, the phantasm exploded. John ducked away and felt the splatter of its form against his jacket. When it was over, he peaked over his arm and saw Dean. Splattered with goo, still blinking into the overpowering light--and okay.

John blew out a breath. It had been near disaster, but they'd pulled it out--no thanks to Sam.

His relief was quickly replaced by his frustrations. Sam had one job, the easy job. To hit the switch. And John couldn't think of one good reason why Sam had almost put them all in jeopardy.

Dean was standing now, wiping goo off his jacket with a look of disgust on his face. "You didn't tell me it was going to be so messy."

"You alright?" John asked, looking pointedly at Dean.

Nodding, Dean flung another handful of cold goo to the floor. "Just peachy," he said. "Though I could have done without the delay of game there. Those things are freakishly cold."

"You were never supposed to get in contact with it at all," John told him tersely.

"I tried to run, but those things kind of go where they want."

John sighed. Dean's self effacing behavior made him an apt student, but they also tended to shield Sam from his share of the blame. Rather, all of the blame. "You weren't the problem," he said. "It was your pain-in-the-ass brother."

Dean quirked his head. "He was a little late in the game, wasn't he?"

John snorted. "A little?"

Dean's brow creased a little. "You think he's okay?"

"He won't be for long," John promised. "Come on. Grab the gear. Let's go find out what your brother deemed so important to put you at risk."

"Dad," Dean said, a little pleadingly.

John wouldn't hear it. Not tonight. It was Dean's instinct to protect his brother, but that was what got them into this mess. Sam didn't need to be coddled and protected. He needed to be strong and able. Making excuses for the kid wouldn't cut it. Not anymore. "Not a word, Dean," John ordered. "Let me handle this my way."

If Dean questioned that, he didn't say. Which was another reason Dean was the perfect hunting partner.

A stark contrast to his youngest, of course, which was exactly what John needed to rectify. Now.

-o-

Dean didn't mind playing bait. All in all, it wasn't as fun as playing with guns or torching things, but it sure as hell beat watching Sam or Dad in the hot seat. Someone had to do it, and was it Dean's fault that he was so irresistible that even the supernatural couldn't stay away?

Not in the slightest.

Plus, Dad still let him pack enough weaponry to make him feel like more than a glorified worm on a hook.

But really, playing bait only worked when everything else went according to plan. Because being caught by a phantasm and nearly chilled to the bone was not so much his idea of a good time.

Truth be told, the aftermath wasn't going to be much better. His dad was pissed and Sam had dropped the ball. The kid had come through at the last minute, but they had cut it pretty close. Dean had felt his vision gray out a bit before the lights had come on, which was so not part of the plan.

There would be lectures and yelling and punishment galore: a not so stellar end to a not so stellar hunt.

But it was more than all of that. It was something else--it was something with Sam. The kid could be a pain in the ass. He could be difficult and inconsistent and straight up frustrating, but sloppy? Not really. Sure, the kid screwed up sometimes--maybe couldn't always shoot quite as straight and had a tendency to fall for some lame-ass spirit tricks, but to not flick a switch on command? Especially when Dean's ass was in the sling?

That wasn't like Sam--not even on his least engaged or most rebellious times.

Given the stiffness of his father's shoulders as they navigated through the building, it was pretty clear that their dad figured it was Sam attitude that was the problem.

But the closer they got to the control room, the less sure Dean was. There was a pit deepening in his stomach, and the sense of dread that was creeping through him was a whole lot more ominous than the icy hold of a phantasm.

Sam didn't risk things like this. Their dad accused Sam of putting the lives of others on the line with his whimsical academic fantasies, but Sam never put family on the line--especially not during a hunt. After all, Dean knew that most of Sam's running away was about fear--that was why he questioned like he did. Sam didn't want to get hurt and he didn't want his family to get hurt, so why would he miss a cue so important?

He wouldn't--it was that simple. Maybe the kid had gotten distracted, fallen asleep on the job, but Dean had to admit, that didn't fit either. Nothing fit except that something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

Swallowing, Dean felt for his gun, which was tucked in the back of his pants. It went against just about every instinct he had to keep it put away as they downed the stairs.

"Sam," their dad barked. "You better have an explanation."

Dean ducked under the duct work as he neared the bottom.

"Samuel," their father said again, more threatening this time. "You want to tell us what happened?"

The air was cold down there--colder than it should have been. Dean's eyes roamed the area, his hunter's instincts kicking in strong. He had to scope it out, check out the landscape. There was something here, something...off.

The room was much as he remembered. Lined with panels and consoles, various ducting and electronic equipment. The panel was little rusted and fluorescent lighting burned low overhead with a painful intensity. And the chill--with this much machinery and this much light, it should be warm. He recognized this feeling. He remembered the icy fingers gripping him, freezing him into submission.

This wasn't that, but it was familiar. Like the chill of a memory, a fading presence. It made Dean shudder. And there was something on the floor--a puddle--and a smear on the wall.

Dean's brain struggled to make sense of it.

"Sam," their dad said again. "Son, what the hell are you doing?"

Then Dean stepped out from behind his father, his eyes settling on his younger brother.

Sam was against the wall, slumped low, his head hanging forward. The dark fringe of bangs covered his face, and his legs were splayed in front of him, arms limp at his sides.

"Sam!" their father snapped, wiling Sam to answer.

But Sam didn't answer. Dean's heart clenched. This was wrong. This was very wrong. The position of Sam's body, the sharp smell of something burning, and the wetness that stained Sam's jeans and shirt.

Somehow, Dean knew Sam wasn't going to answer.

Afraid to breathe, Dean stepped past his father, ignoring the man's short expression of dissatisfaction. Tentatively, he kneeled next to his brother, trying to see his brother's face. The smell was stronger here, and Dean recognized the puddles--the same ones he'd cleaned off himself.

Hand out, he touched his brother's shoulder. "Sammy?" he whispered, hopeful and afraid.

There was no reply.

Giving a small shake, Dean called again, "Sam."

Then, his brother's body flopped sideways, sliding down the wall until Sam was slumped on the floor, partially on his back, his arm flopped limply across his torso to expose a seared and blackened palm. And then Dean could see what he should have suspected: the pale, lax features, the singed hair sticking up in busy tufts from his head.

Dean's throat constricted and tears sprung to his eyes. The pieces made sense--they made horrible, horrible sense.

There had been two. One upstairs and one downstairs. Sam had banished this one, which explained the goo, before turning the switch to allow their father to finish the job upstairs.

Which would have been all well in good if Sam had remembered the basics of electrical currents. That water and electricity don't mix. That wet hands and a rigged switch may have saved Dean's life--

And may have cost Sam his.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: We're thrilled that everyone liked the first part! Hopefully this second part doesn't let you all down. This fic is still for Pink. While your birthday is over, we hope this still brightens your day :)

CHAPTER TWO

Sam should have known.

Maybe not about fused switches or switched fuses. Maybe not even about the two phantasms instead of one. But he should have known that no matter what research he did, no matter what order he obeyed, it would never make a difference.

It never made a difference.

Trying to obey, striving to rebel. Spending time studying, giving up time for the hunt. Being the good son, being the bad son. It all ended up the same.

Failure.

The weight of it tingled in Sam's extremities and he felt weightless and heavy all at once. There were things he should be doing, things he needed to make right. He needed to see if Dean was okay, how angry his father was. He needed to make sure the lights came on and that the phantasm was dead. Both of them.

But Sam couldn't.

And that was the revelation that hurt more than anything else. Trying hard and giving up: they didn't make any difference. Sam lived a life of extremes, of one end of the spectrum to the other, just like the cold essence of the phantasm and the white hot sizzle of electricity. Sam tried to keep them separate. He tried to deal with them both as best they could. But when they came together, when contact was made, then all bets were off and Sam was caught in the crossfire.

He could feel every inch of his body, alive with raging and painful sensation, but he couldn't move a single muscle. He couldn't even breathe. He could feel the stuttering beat of his heart as it thudded in his chest with an uneven beat.

As long as we all do what we're supposed to do, no one will be in any danger.

Dean, tell your brother where he screwed up.

But Dean didn't need to tell him. Sam knew they were as right as they were wrong and it was a balance that was going to kill him sooner or later, so Sam was beginning to think that sooner might just be the way to go.

Then, Sam's heart gave out and he stopped thinking altogether.

-o-

Sam was dead.

John didn't even have to check--he just knew. Just like he knew that night he heard M scream in Sam's bedroom--he knew. The inevitability, the awful, stark, unavoidable truth. John was always running a race he could never win but he would never admit it until the loss jolted him hard back into reality.

John could only watch as Sam's body fell limply to the floor. Dean was hovering over his brother, shaking him, checking for a pulse, screaming at Sam, screaming at John:

"Dad!"

Dean sounded hysterical. Sam looked dead.

It was not the time for semantics. Dean was hysteric. And Sam was dead.

"Dad, we need to call for help!" Dean yelled at him.

John looked at his sons again--Dean's panicked face and Sam's pale features--and didn't know what help could be given to them now. John had had this figured out. Tough love. A shock to the system.

Literally.

Then Dean was in his face, hands fisted in his jacket. "Dad, we need to help Sam!" Dean screamed at him.

John blinked and reality flooded over him. Sam was dead and he was standing there doing nothing. He may have been the kind of father who dragged his sons across the country. He may have been the kind of father who treated fear with a gun under the pillow. He may have been the kind of father that punished his children by not letting them do their homework. But he was not the kind of father who admitted defeat.

He'd lost once.

He wouldn't lose this.

He couldn't.

He'd lost Mary. He'd lost happiness and normal and safety and joy. He wouldn't lose Sam.

Swallowing hard, John pushed Dean out of his way, his eyes transfixed on his youngest. Sam still hadn't moved and, on his knees next to his son's still body, he felt for a pulse anyway. Finding none, he did a quick check of Sam's body. The hair was singed and his hand was burned--which only denoted the electrical shock John had already figured out. That mattered, but not right now.

"He's still warm," John muttered, and he remembered how quickly a human body cooled. "He hasn't been down long."

Looking at Dean, John grimaced.

"We're going to perform CPR, do you understand me, son?" John asked, and he kept his voice even and professional. Like it was just another job.

"Shouldn't we call for help?" Dean asked.

John turned back to Sam, pulling his son gently away from the wall. He positioned him flat on his back, tilting Sam's head backward. "No time," John said. "We either do this ourselves or Sam is gone. Do you hear me, Dean? Sam will be gone."

He didn't wait for Dean's response, but leaned over and pinched Sam's nose, blowing hard into Sam's mouth. Watching his son's chest rise and fall, he positioned himself over Sam's chest. "I need you to breathe for him," John ordered. "Just like I did. Can you do that?"

It wasn't a question John had to ask. Dean always followed orders--without fail. And Dean always protected Sam. But that was the way John was. Asking questions that didn't need to be asked and not asking the ones that mattered. Not asking Sam why he fought so hard against things. Not asking what was so important that he had to do more research at the library. Not asking if there was more to a case. Not asking if Sam could be right.

Not asking if it was possible that John was wrong about everything.

Sam's chest moved under his hands, and John tried not to think about it. He watched Dean breathe for his brother and remembered earlier times. He remembered how fragile Sam had been as an infant. Dean had been large and robust, meaty and eager to meet the world. Sam had been small and weak, premature but tenacious all the same. He'd always been afraid to hold Sam, afraid of somehow hurting his baby boy.

To think, all these years later, he'd been right about that.

Dean breathed. John pushed. True to form, Sam didn't respond.

But damn it, John wasn't quitting. Dean wasn't quitting. And Sam wasn't either.

Dean breathed deeper. John pushed harder. And Sam sucked in a strangled breath.

A surge of hope pushed into the region of John's heart. Maybe Sam would be okay after all.

Dean backed off, leaning back on his heels, as the sprawled body on the cement floor took one stuttering breath followed by another.

Hope turned to grim determination as Sam's back arched off the ground, his muscles pulling taut.

Sam might be attempting to breathe on his own but he was also seizing.

John pulled Sam's right arm, positioning it so that it was at a right angle to his body with the elbow bent and the burned palm facing out. Sam's left arm was placed across his chest with the back of his hand against his cheek. Pulling up Sam's left knee, John bent it and moved it forward until the foot was flat on the ground. He quickly rolled Sam over, tilting his head back to make sure his airway remained open.

Tremors rippled through his young son and John could only stare. How many times had John peaked in on the boys and seen Sam sleeping in exactly this same position? Snug in his bed, turned on his side, hand tucked under his cheek. Almost angelic looking with his dark waves, pale skin and pink lips. Innocence personified. Only now those lips were stained a purplish blue and the shivers wracking the slim body wouldn't stop.

With an explosive exhalation of air that sprayed saliva, Sam's seizure ceased.

"Dad," his oldest grabbed on to his arm, clinging as though John was a lifeline, "is Sammy gonna be okay now?" Dean's voice was young and uncertain and John wished to God he had the answer to his question.

Concentrating on Sam's chest, John waited for the telltale rise and fall that signified his son was breathing on his own. It was there, the movements slight.

Infusing as much authority as he could muster in his voice, John answered, "Sure, son, Sam'll be just fine."

His words lacked conviction but Dean seemed to buy it, his grip on John's arm relaxing infinitesimally.

If only Sam believed John without argument like his oldest did. Sam who always had questions and was never satisfied with John's answers.

There would be time enough for recriminations later. Right now he had to get medical help for Sam.

"Stay with your brother while I go up top and get a signal, call for an ambulance. You get me if your brother stops breathing or he has a seizure again." Dean's attention remained fixed on his still brother and John had to shake his shoulder in order to get a response.

Panicked eyes in a white face turned toward John, freckles standing out starkly against the pale skin. "Got it…call you if Sammy stops breathing or has a seizure."

Dean's attention immediately swung back toward his brother, his hand tangling in the dark hair, softly petting the singed strands.

John pushed to his feet, resting a hand on Dean's shoulder for a moment. He wanted to sweep him into a hug, sweep both of his sons into his arms.

Instead he jogged for the stairwell.

-0-

Dean could only kneel in front of Sam's body and run his hand through his hair. He wanted to hold Sam's hand but only the injured one was within reach.

Not injured. Burned.

While they'd been busy accusing Sam of falling down on the job, his brother had been busy going hand-to-hand with a phantasm on his own and putting himself at risk while he fried himself on their dad's homemade electrical job.

Putting himself at risk to save Dean.

The kicker was that Sam had wanted to delay the hunt, do a little more research. Something had spooked Sam and neither he nor their dad had listened.

Sam was now paying the price.

Dean's hand slid toward the back of Sam's head in gentle stroking motion. He was almost afraid to speak. Afraid that if he spoiled the silence, he'd miss the unsteady intake of air that would signal Sammy was in trouble.

His hand stilled as it made contact with something wet. He yanked his hand back and stared at the crimson staining his fingers. Sam's head was bleeding.

This job kept getting better and better.

Sam shifted, the back of his burned hand slapping uselessly against the concrete floor. "De'n?"

Cupping the back of Sam's neck to still him, Dean leaned forward. "Right here, Sammy. Don't move. We're getting you help."

Eyelids parted to a slit, pupils fully dilated so that the blue-green color was completely obscured despite the blaring fluorescent light overhead.

Shock.

Both he and his dad knew the signs and symptoms of shock yet they hadn't done anything to alleviate them for Sam.

Shucking out of his jean jacket, Dean smoothed it over Sam's torso, tucking the collar down under Sam's chin so it wouldn't impede his breathing.

The hand on the ground spasmed, a tremor passing up the arm and shaking the frail shoulder. Dean prepared to bolt to the stairwell, fearing a seizure was on its way.

"De'n…okay…?" Sam gasped, voice weak and cracking.

Settling back next to Sam, Dean rubbed the exposed shoulder. "Sammy, I'm right here. You did good."

His brother flailed his hand, grasping, toward Dean. "Save…De'n…"

The tension fled Sam's body in a sigh, his head rolling forward. Dean was afraid to move his brother, afraid that Sam's spine had been damaged at the same time he'd hit his head.

It was killing Dean that he couldn't do anything constructive for Sam. His brother always came to him with his worries and his questions and even when he was hurt – physically or otherwise – and in the past Dean had known the right words to say and the right things to do to make Sam feel better.

This time Dean could only stare at Sam as he struggled to breath.

Curling a hand around Sam's wrist, careful of the raw blisters that covered his palm, Dean concentrated on the pulse moving sluggishly beneath his fingertips.

Next time, he needed to listen when his brother had doubts about a hunt. He knew his brother's instincts were good but he'd brushed them aside, content to let his dad take Sam to task.

Dean vowed he'd never fail Sam again.

His brother needed to make it through this. Dean needed to make things right between him.

-0-

Sam tried to open his eyes, struggled to pry them open.

Dean was in danger.

The phantasm…the switch…he'd failed Dean.

His right hand throbbed in time with his heartbeat. The same heartbeat that echoed in his ears.

The beat stuttered, flailing, and Sam clutched at his chest.

His hand refused to budge.

Something gentle touched him on the head. The back of his head ached with an intensity that made him want to cry but the tears wouldn't come.

He had to shake off the pain and lethargy. Dean was counting on him. "De'n."

His voice was pathetic. Weak. No wonder his dad couldn't stand him.

It didn't matter how hard Sam tried, he couldn't please his father.

Concentrate. Dean needed him.

Someone was talking to him but no matter how he strained, he couldn't make out the words.

His heartbeat galloped in his ears again – fast, then slow, then fast again.

It didn't matter. He had to help his brother. At least Dean pretended to listen to him most of the time. He knew his brother didn't really want to hang out with him anymore and he pushed that hurt down daily. He got it. Dean was older, an adult, and Sam was just a kid. A stupid, pathetic excuse for a brother.

He was supposed t o be doing something, something important.

The switch.

His hand twitched but wouldn't move toward the switch.

Everything hurt.

"De'n…okay…?" He had to know.

He made one more grab for the switch and missed. "Save…De'n…"

Sam let himself slip back into the waiting darkness.

-0-

John paced back and forth, willing the doctor to come out and update them on Sam.

He didn't care that it was protocol for ER staff to boot out the loved ones of someone seriously injured while they did an evaluation. He wanted to be in there with his son. He hadn't protected him during the hunt, the least he could do is watch over him now.

Something had gone terribly wrong with this hunt and his little boy was hurt. Bad. Sure, things had happened before on hunts that had resulted in broken bones and stitches for his sons but never this.

He went over and over in his head what had happened and he couldn't isolate where the breakdown had occurred. Of course his head was muddled – he recognized his rapid, shallow respirations and dry mouth as well as clammy skin for what they were – shock.

And Dean was just as bad, his face pale and his eyes wide. His son's back was straight in the chair as he stared at the clock, then to the doorway that Sam had disappeared through and then to John. As if John could do something. He was every bit as out of his element here as he'd been in the basement at the power plant.

The scene when the EMT's had shown up had been surreal. The two guys shoved Dean and John back and labored over the youngest Winchester. They used words like _arrhythmia_ and _ativan_ and _thermal burn_.

John had wanted to give Dean some encouragement, remain strong for his son, but it was so hard when they were loading Sam on a backboard, hooking up an IV and fitting him with an oxygen mask that obscured his whole lower face.

Nothing had changed. They still had no idea what was going on or how Sam was doing.

After what felt like hours but was more like forty-five minutes, a petite woman in light blue scrubs came out and asked for the family of Sam Winchester. "I'm Dr. Katz. As you know, the electrical shock temporarily stopped Sam's heart and respiration but since he's been here, he's been doing fine. The seizures, common in these cases, also appear to have stopped. He does, however, have a Grade three concussion. We'd like to keep Sam here for observation for a day or two to make sure there's no hidden damage and keep an eye on his head. A nurse will be out to take you to Sam's room as soon as we have him settled."

John shook the dark haired woman's hand, relief making him light headed. The concussion wasn't good news but if Sam's heart and lungs were okay, then they'd really dodged a bullet. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he turned to find Dean at his side. He enveloped his son in a one-armed hug before seeking out a hard plastic chair in the waiting room.

His relief was short lived as a tall man in a dark blue uniform entered the waiting room, spoke briefly with the woman at the admissions desk and then strode his way. "John Winchester? I'm Detective Jennings with the Oak Hill Police Department. I'd like to ask you a few questions about your son if that's okay."

It really wasn't okay, but putting it off wasn't going to make it any easier. They'd been in a deserted power plant and Sam had almost been electrocuted. Of course there had to be a police report.

Another dark haired woman, this time in dark blue scrubs, approached. "Excuse me, we've got Sam in room 212 on the pediatric wing. I'd be happy to show you the way if you'd like to follow me."

The woman was young and shapely and had a flirtatious smile which she aimed at Dean but his oldest wasn't returning her interest. Concern for his brother was etched in the fatigue around Dean's eyes and the slump of his shoulders. Squeezing one of those shoulders, John tried to smile but failed. "You go on up and see Sam. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Turning his full attention on the officer, John rose to his feet and extended his hand. "Of course, officer, I'll answer any questions you have."

The man, a little taller than John's own 6'2" inches, shifted his weight between his feet. It was a sign of discomfort and it didn't bode well for the upcoming conversation. "First off, I hope Sam will be okay. He's in my son Jamie's class so I know a bit about him. That's quite a boy you've got there. Smart as a whip. And serious. But I'm a little confused about why Sam would touch a power switch and what he was doing out at the plant."

John ran a hand through the back of his hair. "Sam's always been curious about how things work. He talked his older brother into taking him out to the plant. I'm not sure what he was trying to do, I'm just damned happy that he didn't kill himself with this little stunt."

Jennings squinted his eyes at John and scratched the side of his head. "That doesn't really fit with what I've heard of Sam but you know your own son better. You must be so proud of him…netting the highest score on the PSAT in the high school's history. I hear he's a shoe-in for a Merit Scholarship. That's quite a kid you've got there."

Several emotions ran through John, leaving breathless. He'd told his boys time and time again that they shouldn't do anything to bring attention to themselves and here Sam had been palling around with some cop's son.

Oh, and apparently Sam was wowing everyone with his brain. John didn't even know what the PSAT was but leave it to his youngest to score well on it. Mary would have been so proud.

John forced his lips into a facsimile of a smile. "Oh, Sam is something, that's for sure."

Dean, for all his spunk and attitude, had been easy to raise. He listened to John, obeying every order. Sam was different. More difficult. Sam asked 'why' incessantly. He questioned John. He was always on a quest for normal.

Now Sam had taken to hiding things from him. John wondered if Dean knew about Sam's test score. If he had, he'd played things way close to the vest.

The officer cleared his throat. "Thanks for talking to me. I'll have some follow up questions for Sam but that can wait. I'm sure you want to get upstairs now and see him. I'm glad it sounds like he'll be okay. "

Jennings left the waiting room and John let his body drop back down into the plastic chair. Letting his head fall forward, he dropped it into his hands.

What had the cop said? You know your own son better.

Not so much as it turned out. John needed to get his family back on track and focused on the things that mattered.

-0-

During the elevator ride up, Dean found himself rising up on the balls of his feet and then letting himself back down. It was a nervous habit, and he was beyond nervous.

A cop was grilling his dad downstairs and Sam was in the hospital. The doctor had sounded like Sam would be okay but Dean would never forget his little brother on the concrete floor, their dad doing chest compressions while Dean blew air into Sam's lungs.

Sam must have ganked the phantasm and despite being coated in that cold residual goo, the kid had touched what amounted to a live wire. His brother wasn't stupid, he had to know what would happen.

He'd done it to save Dean.

The nurse with the nice ass showed him into Sam's room. The kid was curled on his side, various wires and feeds hooked up to monitors, a canula tucked into his nostrils feeding him oxygen. "He's still groggy from the medication they gave him for his seizures and will probably sleep for quite a while. We'll be in and out to check on him but please use the call light if you need someone."

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see the brunette was staring at him. Willing him to turn and flirt with her. But Sam was still and pale and he'd almost died saving Dean's life. There was no contest.

Sam came first.

Hooking a chair with his foot, he pulled it close to the bed. Sinking on the edge, he touched Sam's head lightly. He wanted his brother to wake up, flash his trademark dimples, and tell him he was fine. The white bandage wrapped around Sam's right hand and the beeping monitors told another story.

The door opened and Dean turned his head impatiently, ready to tell the nurse to take a hike. His dad filled the doorway, his feet dragging across the threshold. His idol finally moved into the room but his steps were halting, filled with hesitancy. Panic surged through Dean. "Is it Sam? Is he okay?"

His dad absently rubbed at the dark stubble coating his chin. "What? Oh, no. Sam's okay. Doing better than expected."

Instead of pulling up another chair, his dad hovered over Dean's shoulder. Apart from his brother. "Then what is it? What's wrong? Is it the cop?"

The Winchesters lived in fear of Social Services. Dean was an adult and they couldn't touch him but Sam was still fifteen and in the eyes of the law he was a minor and he needed protecting. The Winchesters took care of their own and didn't need outsiders poking their noses in where they didn't belong. Not that they'd done such a bang up job protecting Sam this time.

Dean found his hand sliding through the hair hanging in Sam's face. It was a girly thing to do but right now he had to have some contact with the kid and he was afraid to touch anything else. Sam had been through enough for one night.

His dad stood there so tall and silent that for a moment Dean forgot he was there. He'd been lost in his own thoughts of wanting to take care of his brother that he actually jumped when his dad said his name. "Dean, son, has your brother said anything about wanting to go to college?"

Head swiveling on his neck so fast he almost gave himself whiplash, Dean gaped at his dad. Maybe the phantasm had done something to his dad when he wasn't looking. Or it was the stress of seeing Sam like this. He couldn't believe his dad had asked him that question. There was no way Sammy could go to college – Dean wouldn't be able to watch out for the little geek there and the three of them needed to hunt as a team. "What are you talking about? Of course Sam's not going to college. Are you feeling okay, Dad? You didn't hit your head or anything, did you?"

Staring deeply into his eyes, his dad held eye contact way longer than was normal. It was starting to freak Dean out. Eyes sliding from Dean's, they settled over Dean's shoulder. On Sam. "Did you have to take a test when you were in high school? PSAT?"

Random. This was doing nothing to alleviate Dean's concern. But it was best to play along for now. Until he could figure out what was going on. "Yeah, sure. Stupid dot test that lasted for most of a week I think. Sophomore year."

Dean's breath left him in a whoosh. Kind of like when Sam got lucky during sparring and connected with his bread basket.

Sam was a sophomore. His dad was talking about the PSAT and college for Sam.

It all made sense. Horrible sense.

Except his brother would have told him about the test. And college. Sammy told him everything. Kid hardly shut up. At least that's the way Sam had been before. Before Dean started spending all his free time with his dad, helping on hunts. Come to think of it, Sam had been pretty quiet lately. Dean had put it off to teenage hormones. But this…maybe going away, leaving Dean – this was something else.

Ice settled deep in the pit of Dean's stomach in a block, replacing the air.

His hand continued to pet through Sam's hair, slowly, methodically.

His brain chased around, stuck on an awful loop.

How could he protect Sam if he left him behind?

-0-

A dull throb at the back of Sam's head was the first thing he noticed. That and the way his back ached. The pinching sensation on his right palm. The patch of itchy skin on his right cheek.

He scrunched his face up in an effort to alleviate the itch but something hard poked the inside of both nostrils. His left hand finally obeyed his command to lift and rubbed at his nose.

"Leave it be, Sammy. Your body needs the oxygen."

Why was Dean watching him sleep? That was sort of stalkerish.

What did he mean about oxygen?

Not wanting to leave the insulated state of numbness that sleep offered, Sam forced his eyelids to lift anyway. He wanted to know what was digging into his nose and why Dean thought he needed oxygen.

It took a minute and lots of blinking but the shimmery outline of his brother finally came into focus. His brother looked pale and tired.

Maybe Dean was hurt.

The hunt.

The phantasms.

Sam couldn't get the lights on fast enough.

It was all his fault.

He'd failed his brother and Dean was hurt.

"Dean!" Bolting upright, panic spreading his body rapidly, Sam's world tilted and blackness slid over his vision.

Something was pressed into his left cheek. Something soft. The scent of leather and gun powder filled his nose. He could hear the fast lub-dub of a heartbeat under his ear. "Come on, come, on…what's taking so long."

Dean sounded okay, maybe he wasn't hurt. Well maybe not okay. He sounded pretty stressed out.

Sam realized he was sitting up, propped against Dean's chest.

A high pitched voice made him flinch. "What seems to be the prob…oh, dear. Let's get the patient settled back in the bed and we'll see what's what."

He wanted to protest the rough handling only it wasn't all that rough. It took a little bit of coaxing before Dean pried his hands away and lowered Sam back to the bed and that made Sam feel a little better. He wanted the woman with the irritating voice to go away. Dean's voice was deep and usually mellow. He wanted to hear Dean's voice.

Sam's eyelids finally unglued themselves and opened. "Dean?"

Pathetic. Needy. Whiny. No wonder his dad and brother didn't like being around him all that much these days. He tried to keep away from the kids at school because it upset his dad when he "formed attachments" with people. Leaving friends behind when they moved, as they always did, was depressing. Sam tried to steer clear of relationships but sometimes it was lonely. Instead he tried to immerse himself in his studies but his dad had figured out how much it meant to him and suddenly homework and even being allowed to go to school seemed to be under fire.

A small sigh escaped his lips as the tugging and fussing hands of the nurse were withdrawn. Blinking his eyes clear, he found Dean staring down at him with trepidation. "You with me, Sammy?"

Licking his dry lips, Sam nodded and wished he hadn't as the back of his head pinged and twinged with pain. He rolled on to his left side again and concentrated on breathing in and out. When he refocused on his brother, Dean was sitting next to him, his right eye twitching with either anxiety or annoyance. Sam was willing to put money on annoyance. Everything he did these days was met by disapproval.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Sam decided it was time he find out what exactly he had done wrong this time, especially since it had landed him in the hospital. Better him than Dean although with the way his brother's arms were crossed, it looked like his brother might not agree. "How bad did I screw up this time?"

Dean frowned, the skin between his eyebrows pulling taut. "Sam, you…what the hell were you thinking? You shouldn't have…"

Even though he'd asked the question, Sam found himself tuning out. He knew he was in the hospital and he seemed to be okay – he was definitely sore but that's what happened when a phantasm got the drop on a person – and as expected, it was his own fault. Too slow, too stupid, too weak…it was obvious to everyone that Sam wasn't cut out to be a hunter but for some reason his family insisted on fitting that square peg in the round hole that was his disastrous life.

Dean's voice blended with the soft beeps of the monitor and Sam's eyes drifted closed again. His own failures had become so commonplace, he even bored himself to tears. Or in this case, to sleep.

He might as well rest up now. He'd need every bit of energy he could muster to deal with his dad's reaction to his latest screw up.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: This was our joint Pay It Forward fic for pinkphoenix1985--perhaps a little heavier on the angst than we'd first intended but teen!Winchesters is all about the angst. Massive thanks to Bayre and Gidgetgal9 for the betas. And thank you for reading the story to its (bitter) conclusion.

CHAPTER THREE

Sam slept.

The doctor said that was normal after an electrical shock, that patients often had to let their systems reset a little bit, before they were ready to come back online.

So John let him sleep. It was easier that way, anyway. Easier than facing the growing gap between them. John had seen it happening, but had written it off as hormones. Thought it was nothing more than Sam's difficult nature.

But it wasn't just a void between them. It was a distance filled with lies and half truths. With homework and PSATs and friends.

You know your own son better.

John almost wanted to laugh. Sure, he knew his boy. He knew the soft curve of Sam's cheeks. He knew the jut of Sam's chin. He knew the way Sam's hair look disheveled in the morning. He knew about the slouch to Sam's shoulders and he knew about the little lines between his son's eyebrows when he was really concentrating.

Hell, he knew the way Sam curled up on his right side in his sleep, knees pulled in and arms clutching at the blankets around his chest. He knew it from peeking into a thousand motel room bedrooms and from hundreds of glances in the Impala's rearview mirror.

Looking at Sam now, it was still much the same. Sam's face was thinning out a bit, but the rest was there, right down to the mumblings of dreams as Sam shifted in his bed.

He'd never spent much time wondering about what Sam dreamed.

Maybe he should have.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

Maybe he should have.

-o-

Dean had always been able to sleep anywhere. It was a rare talent, he was sure, and one he had perfected at a very young age. From a curled up position in the Impala's front seat to a half inclined lull on an easy chair, Dean had done it all. Hell, he'd even managed to sleep on a tree branch one time during a hunt for a black dog that just would not end.

So crashing in the chair next to Sam's bed? A piece of cake.

He twitched, rolling his shoulders and grimacing. He wasn't sure if it was the lingering effect of the phantasm's touch or the overall stress of the night before, but perhaps it wasn't quite as easy as it used to be.

With a groan, he shifted. The memory of sleep was slipping from him, though, and with that came the realization of where he was.

Sam's hospital room.

The events played back with horrific clarity, from the delay of the lights to finding Sam to breathing for him to hearing his father ask about the PSATs.

He'd almost lost Sam last night and he could lose him again. Not to anything evil or horrible but to school.

Loss was loss, though, and the thought was enough to bring Dean to an abrupt waking.

Swallowing, he blinked a few times, letting his eyes focus.

The room was dim and unchanged. Sam was still sleeping on the bed, the monitors above him flashing with consistency. His father was slouched in a chair at the foot of Sam's bed looking warily at him.

"He okay?" Dean asked, rubbing his eyes a little as he gave his arms a quick stretch.

His dad nodded a little, his gaze hardly wavering.

Dean swallowed hard, and realized how dry his throat was. "He been awake at all?"

His dad shook his head.

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "So you've just been sitting there all night?"

At that, his dad looked at him, eyes narrowing. "We need to talk," he said curtly as he stood. "Outside."

Dean's eyebrows raised. Not that he'd expected the old man to be chipper after a night like that, but Dean couldn't figure out what lecture he was about to get. Because a private meeting outside while Sam was still sleeping off the effects of an electrocution? Really did not bode well.

Still, there wasn't anything he could do to avoid it, and he was too tired to give a damn. With a sigh, he stood and followed.

The hallway was brighter, but almost just as quiet. There was a distant sound of muffled voices, but the halls were empty.

His father pinned him with his stony gaze. His jaw was locked and Dean could see the tension lurking in his father's posture. "You promise me, beyond a shadow of a doubt, you did not know, Dean," his father said, and his voice was hard and strained, like he was barely keeping it in check.

"Know what?" Dean asked.

"About Sam," his father said. "About the PSATs."

Dean's stomach turned and for a moment he thought he'd be sick. "Sam doesn't exactly talk very much these days."

"He talks to you," his father told him shortly.

"Not about that."

"It's your job to know, Dean," his father continued. "You're supposed to know this stuff."

Dean felt himself bristle a little. After all these years, his father had to ask? He was his brother's protector--his brother's best friend, his confidante. He took care of Sam, he knew everything about Sam--

At least he thought he had.

But clearly not so much.

Admitting that was harder than admitting just what the PSATs meant to all of them.

With a measured breath, Dean ground out, "I don't go to school with him anymore. What he does when he goes there, I can't know for sure. And you know you take me with you on hunts more. Sam's home alone sometimes. There's nothing I can do."

A piece to the puzzle fell into place. Sam hadn't just stopped talking. There had been no one there to talk to him. No one there to listen. Sam couldn't tell people who weren't there about tests and friends. Sure, Dean asked what Sam was up to, but the minute the kid opened his mouth about school, Dean had just rolled his eyes. He lived through it once, he didn't want to relive it through Sam's geeky eyes.

"It's your job to know," John said shaking his head. He sighed, looking at the ceiling. "This has gotten way too out of hand. The whole thing."

"I know, but we'll get it back," Dean tried to say. "I mean, now that we know and everything, we can stop it. We can talk him out of it."

His dad actually laughed at that. "Dean, I've been sitting in that hospital room watching Sam sleep for the last six hours. I've watched him sleep and thought about how we've raised him. I thought about the way he's grown up. I've thought about every milestone of Sam's life that I can think of. And you know something? You know what I realized?"

His father paused, and Dean swallowed hard. He needed to know, but part of him didn't want to. Because he knew whatever was said next would be a dividing line, something to make or break this entire thing.

"That I made a mistake from the beginning. That I coddled him when I should have trained him. That I kept the truth from him when I should have ingrained it into every fiber of his being. That I let him think too much, we let him play too much, that he had too much freedom."

There was truth to all of it, but skewed. They had lied to keep Sam safe. They had given him a childhood to keep Sam unaware. Sam was only fifteen. He was young--he could--he would come around. "Dad, don't you think you're being a little harsh?"

His father's eyebrows went up. "Harsh? You mean like that phantasm was last night? Like the jolt of electricity that nearly killed your brother? And for what? That's the kicker, Dean, right there. For what? So Sam can take the PSATs? So Sam can make nice little friends? So Sam can plan his secret little life away from us? He's not safe like that, and you know it. This hunt proved it."

"He was right about the phantasm," Dean countered.

"But he was wrong about everything else," John said flatly.

"We didn't listen."

"Because he doesn't know how to talk to us," his father told him. "He demands when he should ask, he fights when he should explain."

"So what do you want to do?" Dean asked. "Cut him off from school?"

John nodded. "You need to know what he's doing and when he's doing it. No more nights doing homework. No more early days at school. No more hours unattended in the library."

"You want to place the kid under house arrest?" Dean asked. "Because he got electrocuted?"

"Dean, do you want to lose your brother?"

Dean shifted. "No."

"Whether it's a phantasm, an electrical shock, or college, if we don't do something, we will lose Sam."

The thought made his stomach bottom out again, the flood of fear and doubt coming back to him. He shook his head. "We can stop it."

"By keeping him in check."

"You're going to smother him," Dean said.

"He needs to fall in line, Dean," his father said, shaking his head. "I need to know I have your back up on this one."

Dean gave a look back toward Sam's room. He could still see Sam's figure curled up on the bed.

He thought about the way it felt when he felt Sam's neck and there was no pulse. He thought about the way it felt to breathe in his brother's mouth and get no resistance. He thought about the way it felt to watch his brother die and almost not get him back.

Swallowing, he nodded tightly. "Yeah," he said, looking back at his dad. "I've got your back."

His dad nodded and seemed to pull himself together. "Good," he said. "It's not going to be easy, but I think we can do it. You and I together, I think we can do this."

It didn't feel good and didn't seem nearly reassuring enough, but, at the moment, it was all Dean had.

-o-

Sam didn't like to fail.

Not that most people did, but Sam was pretty sure he was more adamant about not failing than most people. He wasn't sure when it had started, but for as long as he could remember, he'd felt like he was always playing catch up. From trying to beat Dean at Candyland, to trying to win his father's trust like Dean did so naturally, Sam was always just a step behind. If Sam could load a gun in a minute, Dean could do it in forty seconds. If Sam could uncover some obscure lore about their latest hunt, Dean could rattle the way to kill it off the top of his head. If Sam managed to get in a good move during sparring, Dean could counter it and wrap Sam in a choke hold that had his vision graying as he tapped out.

Sam didn't like to fail, but failure was basically a part of his life.

Just like this hunt. For as much as he'd focused on it, for all the research he'd done for it, to the phantasm he'd killed on his own, this hunt still came back to failure. Sam had failed to hit the switch on time and, worse, when he'd finally gotten himself there to do it, he'd failed to remember that exposed wires and wetness weren't a good combination.

Which was how they'd gotten in this mess. Now there were insurance issues, fraud worries, CPS concerns. Add all that to the fact that Sam had nearly gotten them all killed, and it was really no wonder that neither his father or Dean had said more than two words to him since he'd woken up.

Sure, Dean had made a few quips about Sam's stellar new hairdo, but something was off. Something was very, very off. From Dean's nervous looks around the room to their father's stony nature, it hadn't taken Sam long to deduce that not all was well in Winchester land.

Which, of course it wasn't well. Sam had just gotten himself fried. Sam didn't remember much about it really--just the phantasm and a lot of pain--but the doctor said he was pretty damn lucky and made him promise not to go play in abandoned power facilities anymore.

The good news was that he was fine, mostly. Apparently his heart was beating normally again and he hadn't shown any signs of seizure activity in over ten hours. All in all, he was about to be cleared to go home.

Looking hesitantly at his dad and brother again, Sam wished he could be more excited about that.

He breathed out slowly, trying to calm his frayed nerves. He felt jumpy about it all, like there were miniscule currents of electricity still flowing through his body. With a hard swallow, he resolved himself. Sam didn't like to fail, but he hated not trying even more.

"I'm sorry," he blurted suddenly into the room.

Dean looked at him uncertainly; his father's look was distant and controlled.

Licking his lips, Sam continued, "For, uh, messing up. I should have flicked the switch."

Dean's face softened a little, with a big brotherly familiarness that made Sam feel the tendrils of hope. But his father's face was colder now, his lips pursed. "Yes, you should have," he said evenly.

Sam's mouth twitched, somewhere between a smile and a frown. "I didn't know the phantasm was there until it was too late."

"You should have contacted me."

"I didn't have time," Sam said.

His father's eyes held no sympathy. "You should have made the time."

It was a good answer, and one Sam could only refute with the same explanation that was getting him nowhere. "I knew there was something wrong, but I just didn't think about two of them."

His dad snorted a little. Dean shifted nervously and Sam's voice was cut off in his throat. "You always have to think, Sam," his dad said. "You're not the only one out there. We rely on each other."

"I tried to do more research--"

"This isn't about research," his dad snapped. "This is about you screwing up and nearly getting yourself and Dean killed in the process. You have to put Dean's life first, put the hunt above yourself, and trust that we'll do the same for you."

Sam had tried. It had all happened so fast. "The stuff I found at the library--"

"Damn it, Sam," his dad cut him off so hard that even Dean flinched. "This isn't about something that we missed. This is about you. This is why I make you focus on the hunt. This is why we train like we do. This is why we work together. Do you understand me?"

Sam felt his eyes water. His throat was tight and his chest felt heavy. "I tried--"

"No excuses," his father continued. "You will tell me no excuses. You will only follow my orders and work harder and this will not happen again, do you understand me?"

Sam nodded a little, too afraid not to.

"No more school projects, no more homework," his father persisted.

Sam heart clenched and his eyes widened.

"No more friends, no more tests," he said tersely. "The hunt. We can't afford any more screw ups and until you prove to me that you can, this will not ease up. Do you understand?"

Sam thought about school. He thought about his history project and his English paper. He thought about the table he sat at during lunch and the girl who sat next to him in study hall. He thought about the PSATs and his English teacher telling him he might be able to get a scholarship from this.

Those were the highlights of his life, the things that made him feel good and meaningful. He liked his family--he loved Dean's jokes and he liked his dad's steadiness--but Sam didn't like to fail. Home was one failure after another--school was his refuge. To give that up--to sacrifice the one thing that he was good at--

"Sam, do you understand?" his father asked again, more sternly this time, his eyes piercing deep within Sam.

Sam trembled. He stole a glance at his brother, who was looking at his hands. He thought about if it had been Dean, if Dean had been the one to get hurt, if Dean's life had been put in danger because of him.

Life was about choices. Some things he could afford to fail at. Others he couldn't.

In the end, he had no choice.

Looking down, he nodded.

"I can't hear you, Sam," his father said.

Looking up, Sam met his father's eyes with weary resolve. "Yes," he said.

"Yes, what?"

With a measured breath, Sam straightened his back as best he could. "Yes, sir."

At that, his father's posture eased slightly, and he nodded. "Very good," he said. "Now let me see if I can go round up your discharge instructions. We need to get home."

With that, his father strode from the room. Sam turned to Dean, looking beseechingly at his brother for something to lighten this new weight. But Dean only met his eyes for a moment before looking away again.

"I've got to go check on something," his brother mumbled quickly, before darting out after their father.

Alone, Sam stared at his lap. His burned hand ached under the bandages and he felt dirty and tired.

But maybe this was what he needed. Maybe his dad was right. Maybe this was a question of focus. Maybe he could do this if he put his mind to it. If he tried harder, if he pushed himself hard enough, maybe he wouldn't screw up, maybe his dad would respect him enough to listen to him before they went out on the hunt. Maybe his father would look at him like he looked at Dean, maybe Sam would save the day.

Maybe Sam wouldn't fail. Maybe Sam would win.

It was all Sam wanted. To be worth something in and of himself. To prove that he was valuable. That he was more than something to be protected, more than a screw up to be fixed.

At this point, it was the most Sam could hope for.

-o-

John prided himself on being a strict father when the situation called for it, but he had to admit, this was hard.

It had been a week since Sam had been discharged from the hospital, and each day seemed to be getting harder than the first. Starting with chewing his son out when all he wanted was to hold him tight enough to feel the reassuring beat of his heart to watching Sam try and try and try in training only to fail each and every time.

Worse, was that he could see his son's resolve. The shock Sam had received had fully given his son's rewiring a bit of a jolt and John supposed his hard lecture at the hospital had had its desired effect. Sam was focused that week, dutiful in his training and purposeful in his interactions with John and Dean. All in all, Sam was the obedient son he'd always wanted, and it still wasn't getting them where John wanted to be.

Sam was still sloppy. He still couldn't get his footwork right when John put him through his paces, his aim was off when he took target practice and even his research skills suffered. The more Sam poured into the training exercises, the more his brain seemed to lock up when it came to searching out information. And although the enthusiasm and focus his baby channeled into the exercises was duly noted, it didn't have a positive effect on the results.

At the moment John had Sam working on his hand to hand combat skills and Dean was the opposition. So far Sam had hit the ground two times and his nose was bloodied while Dean looked untouched, even his hair remained unruffled.

Dean feinted to the right and Sam made the appropriate counter move, spinning to the left. The execution of the move ended there when Sam's feet tangled with themselves and he flew toward the grass. Dean darted forward to catch his brother but at the last moment, pulled back. Sparring with Sam wasn't anything new but getting Dean to let Sam deal with the consequences of his failures was a definite shift in the modus operandi.

Both John and Dean both cringed when Sam smacked full force into the unforgiving ground.

Dean's fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. He stalked off toward the rented house, throwing a turbulent look over his shoulder at John, muttering under his breath, "I can't do this anymore…"

The previous two times Sam had kissed the dirt, he'd sprung back to his feet, shaking off the damage. This time Sam stayed down. He didn't want to but he made himself suck it up. This was for Sam's own good. "On your feet, Sam. That was the most appalling execution of a move I've ever seen from you and that's saying something. Come on, Sam, shake it off. Show me what you're made of."

Only Sam ignored John. He supposed it had only been a matter of time before Sam's resolve withered and John would have to play the heavy again. He wasn't sure what privilege he could take away since he had Sam living under Spartan conditions at the moment. Maybe more chores would bring him into line although at the moment John couldn't think of anything else to heap on Sam's head.

Kneeling down next to the prone body, John wrapped his hand around Sam's left biceps. "I said, on your feet Sam." John injected his words with as much of the macho Marine growl as he could muster. The muscle gripped in his hand was completely lax, despite John's bruising grip, and warning bells started doing a jig in John's brain.

With a hand behind Sam's neck, and the other shifting from Sam's arm to his shoulder, John carefully eased his son on to his back.

And stared.

A bright red scrape oozed blood on the tip of Sam's chin and the edges of the wound were already darkening in what would soon be a spectacular bruise. Sam had apparently collided chin-first with the packed clay earth and had managed to knock himself out.

John heeded the ABC's of first aid, starting with Sam's airway. He tilted his son's neck back and gingerly grasped Sam's wounded chin, forcing his mouth open. Bright red blood trickled out the corner of Sam's mouth and John peered closely inside. Having established that Sam's airway was clear, John was relieved to find that Sam hadn't severed his tongue. He'd managed to take quite a chunk out of it and it would hurt like hell for a while but mouth wounds heeled quickly.

Sam's chest was moving up and down methodically, slowly, almost as though his son was sleeping. The dark eyelashes swept across high pale cheekbones reinforced the image but this was an unnatural sleep. His hand sought the carotid artery on the still neck, nimbly avoiding the yellowish patches of healing frostbite, courtesy of the exploding phantasm. Sam's pulse was nice and steady.

Thumbing back each of Sam's eyelids, John was pleased to see the pupils were equal in size and reacting to the light. Satisfied that Sam had just been knocked out, no concussion, John decided to take Sam back to the house. He threaded an arm beneath long legs, cradling the other behind the thin back, tugging his youngest into his arms. Sam nestled in, eyelids twitching, starting to rouse from the smack-down.

John bent his head and pressed his lips to Sam's forehead, squeezing the thin boyish body in his arms. He'd wanted to do this in the hospital after Sam woke up from his miss with first the phantasm and then the electrical shock.

Deep down, he was proud that Sam had defeated the phantasm on his own. He was angry with himself for putting Sam in that position.

Scolding Sam as he stared at John with those huge blue-green eyes had been difficult but seeing Sam limp and unresponsive was so much worse. He knew Sam was okay but his mind kept flashing back to administering CPR to his completely unresponsive son at the power plant.

For the umpteenth time, John wished Sam was more like Dean. His oldest never caused this kind of grief. Mary would have kicked his ass for having those thoughts but it was the truth.

He didn't know what to do anymore, how to treat Sam. But he did know that treating Sam like a grunt wasn't working and instead of pulling the unit together, it was pulling it apart.

John had to try something else because it felt like he was losing his baby.

-0-

Dean kicked every rock his foot could find between the area they'd co-opted for training and their current rental unit.

He didn't know if the rocks represented Sam for being so uncoordinated that Dean regularly wiped the floor with him while sparring, his dad for being so hard on Sam, or himself for going along with the program even though he wasn't sure it was the right thing to do.

Sam wasn't like Dean and he wished their dad would quit trying to treat him the same. He was like this super smart, tender-hearted creature and half the time Dean didn't know how to act around him either. But barking instructions at Sam had the opposite effect on Sam as they did Dean – Sam just dug his heels in and became more obstinate if that was even possible.

Take all the sparring for example. Normally Sam would be bitching about the time taking him away from his homework but now he just nodded his head, said yes sir, and got his ass handed to him for his efforts. Not that doing homework was a possibility at the moment since their dad had barred Sam from doing it. That had to be killing his geeky little brother.

Throwing a glance over his shoulder to make sure the little geek was okay, Dean stumbled to a stop. His dad had Sam cradled in his arms.

Sam was hurt.

It was Dean's fault Sam was hurt.

No, it was their dad's for making Dean treat Sam so harshly. Teach him a lesson. Dean couldn't do it any longer.

He sprinted over to them, his speed fueled by anger.

Pulling up in front of them, his eyes flew to Sam's face. His brother's chin was sluggishly oozing blood, a bruise already darkening the pale skin. This was the second time in one week that Sam had been hurt because of Dean and he couldn't take it anymore, he had to make it up to his brother. "I'll take him!"

Without asking for permission or agreement, Dean was tugging Sam from his dad's arms. His brother groaned, dull eyes turning toward Dean. "M' fine…put me down…"

"Sure you are," Dean huffed, turning away from his dad's startled face. "Let's get you back to the house and clean up that chin of yours."

He wanted to make a sarcastic comment, maybe about how Sam's chin was going to resemble Dudley Do-Right's, but he couldn't find anything funny about the situation.

Sam was wiggling in his arms, demanding to be put down. "Nothing wrong with my legs. I want down. Please."

It was the please that did Dean in. He eased his arm from behind Sam's knees and let him stand, an arm still wrapped tight around his waist. He didn't know if the arm was to keep his brother upright or so he could keep contact. Dean had an irrational fear that Sam was just going to up and leave him behind but that was stupid. Sam would never leave him.

Easing away from Dean's grip, Sam looked at the house and then looked back at Dean. He peaked at Dean through his too long, messy bangs and Dean couldn't read the look in those too serious eyes.

When had that happened? Sam had always been an open book to him.

Dean opened his mouth to ask Sam if he was okay when the deep voice of authority boomed from behind him. "Sam, I'll meet you in the house in a minute. I want to make sure we clean that scrape out good. Dean, a word."

Sam shuffled toward the house, his gait no more unsteady than usual. When a sigh echoed his own, Dean turned his attention toward his dad. He wanted to tap back into the anger he experienced moments ago but the deep look of concern pinching the older hunter's face made him rethink. They both loved the klutzy kid. They both wanted what was best for him. They just needed to figure out what that was. This whole situation had really put a jolt in their fighting unit but there had to be some way to turn it around. "I can't do that to him anymore, Dad. He's not ready. Maybe we need to go more slowly. He's all long limbs that get twisted up and I don't want to be the one who puts him in traction!"

Heat poured from his face and Dean knew if he'd been near a mirror, he'd find his face a bright red. He hated having a light complexion that gave everything away but he hated more the fact that Sam was a mess and it felt like he was slipping away.

Expecting a dressing down for challenging his dad directly, ripping Sam out of his arms, Dean was shocked when his old man threw an arm around his shoulder. "I don't know, kiddo. I thought I had the answer, that by working Sam hard he'd fall into line. But this isn't working, for any of us. Let's take care of your brother then talk to him. If he feels up to it, maybe we'll go out for pizza or burgers afterward."

Their dad never rewarded them for failure. He barely rewarded them for achievements. The thought of John Winchester taking them out to dinner after what amounted to a colossal failure didn't seem right. But talking to Sam seemed like a good place to start, Dean just never thought he'd see the day his dad would initiate the conversation. It just wasn't him. Things were totally crazy with Team Winchester and Dean didn't know what to make of it.

His stomach gave a rumble, breaking the silence. Dean smiled, "Sure Dad, let's go talk to the runt." His dad tugged him tighter to his side for a moment before turning him loose.

Maybe if their dad could act this way with Sam, the kid wouldn't dig his heels in so much. Not that he was right now. Sam was trying to get with the plan but his body had other ideas.

Dean didn't have the answers but if anyone did, it was his dad.

John Winchester could kick ass like no other hunter and he was a great dad. Dean had to believe everything would be fine.

-0-

Sam dabbed at his chin, wincing at the contact. His head ached but not near as much as he'd expected. One moment he was dancing out of Dean's reach, and the next he was digging a hole in the dirt with his chin. He'd seen stars and then things had gotten a little fuzzy. When he'd opened his eyes, he'd been in his dad's arms which was humiliating. To make matters worse, Dean had plucked him out of his dad's arms, treating him like an invalid.

Sam wasn't an invalid. Merely an incompetent hunter.

What was really sad was that he was giving it his all and failing spectacularly. He wished training and the skills associated with hunting came as naturally as doing his class-work and studying. Not to be pompous, but Sam knew he was smart. Book smart. Not real world smart like Dean and Dad.

A knock on the door had Sam jumping visibly. He was grateful he'd shut the door and that whoever was on the other side hadn't just busted on in. "Come on, Sammy, open the door. I want to check your war wounds."

Suppressing a sigh, Sam glanced in the mirror. The last thing he wanted to do was face anyone looking like this. Especially because his current state was his own fault. He was a total spazz and his face had paid the price. It looked like his chin was growing a new chin. Or some alien life form was crawling out of his skin. He didn't want to participate in show-and-tell. What he really wanted to do was flop down on his bed and close his eyes. Regroup. Recharge. Maybe read a book.

If he asked to be excused then he knew he would be accused of being selfish at the least. Or disobedient. Dissident. Disloyal. His brain was stuck in a groove of alliteration. That was Sam's favorite literary stylistic device at the moment, courtesy of his favorite English teacher, Mr. Wyatt. Mr. Wyatt who thought Sam could do anything he wanted with his life.

Apparently except hunt.

Knuckles rapped against the thin plywood door again. "Sammy, you okay, dude?"

With a wry grin that pulled at the wound on his chin, Sam opened the door. It broke with protocol but he was going to ask to be excused from the rest of whatever his family had planned for him. He didn't think he could cope with anyone being nice to him right now or God forbid, more training. He just needed some time to lay low and wallow by himself. Then he could get back up on the invisible horse that kept dumping him on his ass, time and time again.

He could do this. Eventually, if he told himself enough times, he'd start to believe it and maybe it would become real: Sam was a Winchester and was destined to be a great hunter.

But first a quick reprieve. Surely he'd earned that much by listening to his dad all week, trying to be a good son.

Dean cracked a relieved smile at Sam's appearance and Sam immediately felt two inches tall instead of five inches shorter than his older brother.

His dad loomed over Dean's shoulder, a strained smile cracking his weathered face. "Son, I know it probably seems I've been a little harsh with you this week but it was for your own good. But I think it's time we tried something else. What do you say we go to Pino's and get some of that pizza you love so much, maybe talk a new strategy?"

The thought of eating made nausea swirl in the pit of his stomach but Sam found himself giving in to his family. Glancing longingly down the hallway toward his bedroom, Sam silently bade it goodbye. He couldn't refuse this olive branch. The last thing he wanted was to go out in public with his new double chin and talk about what a screw-up he was when it felt like a semi had rolled over him, shifted into reverse, and rolled over him again for good measure. And his brother was the one who loved Pino's Pizza, not Sam. But it was for the greater good so for now Sam would soldier on.

After all, it was the Winchester way.

_end_


End file.
